


Count the Years with Me

by BroDudeChill



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Scott is a Good Friend, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Young Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroDudeChill/pseuds/BroDudeChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles looks into the picture he found hidden in his closet and can’t help but want to shout and cry.<br/>It was him and his best friend laughing at a duck in the pond.<br/>It looked so simple, like the only thing happening at that time was two little kids having fun. But it wasn’t that easy, it never was.</p><p> *****<br/>Or when Stiles remembers his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count the Years with Me

 

Stiles looks into the picture he found hidden in his closet and can’t help but want to shout and cry.

It was him and his best friend laughing at a duck in the pond.

It looked so simple, like the only thing happening at that time was two little kids having fun. But it wasn’t that easy, it never was.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the photograph, only knows that Scott is now crouched beside him.

“Stiles can you hear me? You’re not breathing. Count with me okay?” His best friend starts to count but Stiles isn’t able to repeat the numbers, now that he realizes that he can’t breathe, panicking feels so much easier.

“Just listen to me and when you’re ready, count with me. **One, two, three, four, five six** ,”

“ **Seven** ” Stiles wheezes.

Like a time traveling machine, the number sends him back to another era. To somewhere simpler, but nothing is ever simple.

When he was seven he wore his hair long. Brown hair that hid his hazel eyes and every time he fell his mother would sigh and say “We should cut the whole thing off” and then push him off once more to the playground. Usually, he would stick out his tongue at her comment and then follow a crooked chinned boy to the swings.

Usually. But once, he saw something in the trees. It looked like golden eyes; he would swear on all his candy that it was a dog. A big black dog and he quickly changed direction, going to the leaf-less trees instead of the brightly colored swings.

Pushing low branches out of his face he crept to where he saw the dog. His rubber boots breaking every stick and crunching every yellow leaf on the ground, he hoped the dog had not been scared away.

A shadow of black ran behind the trees to his left and he spun giddily, crossing his fingers in hopes that the fluffy dog would show himself.

“Here puppy” he whispered, he clapped his mitted hands together to attract the hiding dog. Branches snapping made him twirl around and tiptoed up a small hill where he heard the sound.

“Here puppy” he called again, “Come out and play.”

Over the hill he saw the large black dog; its yellow eyes were trained on him, tongue hanging out and a cloud formed with each breath.

“Hi puppy.” He walked slowly towards it, his red coat swishing with ever step. Three steps away from the animal, he came to a stop. They stayed like that, eyes boring into the others for what seemed like forever but was probably a few seconds.

The dog’s head suddenly snapped to look at a sound the child could never hear.

He gasped, wide hazel eyes staring as the dog seemed to change before his eyes. No longer was there a fluffy puppy, instead stood a predator. His heart was pounding beneath his ribcage, he stumbled back and the dog growled. Yellow eyes turned to slits, teeth glinted in the cold air and a dark, menacing howl ripped open the blanket of peace that covered the two.

 With trembling legs the boy spun and ran. He flailed and tumbled down the hill but threw himself to his feet and continued running. Trees rushed by as he ran, not knowing where to go only that he had to get _away_.

Somehow, he found himself rushing out of the tree line. The park came into view but his eyes focused on his mother. He smashed into her and held onto her leg.

“Oh sweetheart” she said, “you’re shaking. Let’s go inside before you freeze.” She walked him to the car but as they walked past the forest the boy’s eyes betrayed him. He glanced at the forest and saw two piercing eyes staring at him.

Once he was home, he took off his coat and his mother gasped in shock. His arm was red with yellow spots surrounding a strange looking bump extruding from his forearm.

“John call the hospital! Stiles broke his arm!”

But he couldn’t feel the pain; his mind was still in forest, staring at cold yellow slits. He would swear on all his candy that it had been a wolf.

 

“ **Eight**.” Stiles resurfaces from his memories at the number only to be pushed to another time only a second later.

The white was too bright, the beeping was too loud and the smell as too wrong. Panic surged as he could no longer breathe. Pain burst around his abdomen and like fire it spread everywhere. He grabbed a blurry handle and rushed out of the room.

From a million miles away he heard a frightened “he was right there! He was about to kill me!”

The white, beige and mint green of the hospital walls blurred together and he tried to blink the tears away. His brain was beating his temples and he gripped at his shoulders like a life line. A nurse ran towards him.

“Stiles? Stiles I need you to breathe.” He knew he needed to breathe, but he also needed the pain to stop and he needed her to remember who he was.

“Stiles you need to count with me.” The voice sounded so far away, like an echo in a tunnel. He was angry though, why did he have to comply with her needs? Why did he have to listen when all he needed was his mother and she wasn’t there? Why was she not there when he needed her the most?

“Stiles! Count now!” and he did. One, two, three, four and the bricks on his chest lightened. Five, six, seven and he could see the curly haired nurse nodding along. Eight, nine, ten and he could no longer taste blood in his throat.

He stared at the nurse he knew for so long. Her brown hair was in a low ponytail, her dark brown eyes flickering around his face, her thin lips pointing down.

“I- I’m sorry” he stuttered. He flushed red and looked shamefully at the floor.

“I know she’s not supposed to be left alone but I couldn’t take the screaming.” Her face melted to one of pity. She gripped his shoulders and forced him into a tight embrace.

“Don’t you dare say sorry. You didn’t ask for this, you didn’t sign up for this torture. If you need to leave, you leave.”

She smelt of lilac and he began to sob. Legs crumpling under him, he held tightly to the mother of his best friend. He crushed the woman he considered his second mother between his small eight year old arms and wished he never had to leave the warmth.

His mother had smelled like lilac too, before the medicine overpowered the scent. His mother had brown hair too, before they that to cut it off so she couldn’t rip it out. His mother had brown eyes too, before the color faded to a stale hazel that froze in fear every time she saw him.

He knew Melissa was wrong, he wasn’t allowed to leave. He promised his dad that he would be strong, that he was capable of visiting his mom without surveillance. But he was wrong, he wasn’t strong. He wasn’t able to do anything but cause her pain.

Even when she screamed and thrashed, he was supposed to stay, to calm her. He was supposed to take care of her but she said something that he wasn’t expecting, that he couldn’t understand.

“It’s you! You’re the one killing me! It’s your fault I’m dying!” The words had already burnt and scarred over his heart. He couldn’t be strong after that, couldn’t torture her like that, he couldn’t stay with her when she had said what he fear all along.

It was his fault; if only he hadn’t told his dad that she had hit him. His dad wouldn’t have called the ambulance.

It was his fault; he shouldn’t have angered her in the first place.

It was his fault; he didn’t know how to save her.

“ **Nine**.” Like a hammer, the number breaks into Stiles’ mind and awakes him from his dreams. Tears slip down his cheeks before his vision is once again whisked away.

There were already four empty Jack Daniel bottles on the kitchen table when he walked in. His father twirled a glass between his fingers.

“Hey dad,” he whispered, placing his red school bag gently on a wooden stool. He wrung his hands together but otherwise he was frozen by the door. The house was dark and the heating was still turned low, but he didn’t move. He could only watch as his dad poured himself another drink.

“You should go do your homework.”

“I don’t have any.” After all, what nine year old did?

His father sighed; he rubbed his face and tried to wash the exasperated expression off his face. He stared at his son and didn’t know what to say.

Stiles was just as clueless. They hadn’t spoken normally since the day after the funeral. His mother was the one that held them together, she was their light and she was gone. Everywhere Stiles walked he could feel her presence.

In the kitchen, he heard an echo of her laugh as she baked cookies. In the living room, he saw her dancing with his dad at Christmas. In the bathroom, he saw her wrap band aids on his cuts and blisters. In his room, he felt the hole where she used to lay beside him and tell him fairytales about werewolves, mages, princesses and dragons.

Right now though, as Stiles stood uncomfortably, he saw her hazily walk out of the kitchen, leaving the stove on and his smaller self turning it off behind her calling _mom! Mom!_

He twisted in his place and looked everywhere but at his dad as the older man poured himself another glass.

They stayed like that, in silence until the clock turned 8.

“Alright kiddo, time for bed,” he dad slurred slightly, he waved towards the stairs and Stiles walked past the wooden table, the four bottles of Jack and his tired dad whose brownish-white hair was sticking up.

“Love you kiddo.” Stiles throat closed. Did he love this shell of a man? He loved his father but this was not him. He loved the deputy who brought him to the station but this was not him. He loved the man that taught him to play lacrosse but this was not him.

“Good night” he choked out and stumbled up the stairs.

As he had lain on his blue sheets, he strained his ears to hear movement downstairs. There was a clink of glass on glass, a thump of his father’s arm falling uselessly on the table, a sigh and a sip.

He stared into the darkness of his room, too much of a coward to be the first to open a light. The clouds covered the moon completely so he was staring up but couldn’t see the ceiling. He focused his breathing the same way the therapist had thought him: he counted to ten.

He felt cold but didn’t cover himself with blankets or close the window. The wind chilled his finger tips and cheeks but he stayed still. He deserved to feel pain when he had just caused his father pain.

As if agreeing with Stiles, he heard his dad start to cry. A wet breath taken in and another sob that tore through Stiles body from the kitchen, he could almost see as his dad’s façade evaporating.

At the same time, Stiles’ own barrier began to fade. He hid between his bed and the wall furthest from the door, curled into a ball and face pressed to a pillow as his body shook with his own misery.

He didn’t know why he had to hide. He didn’t know why he tried to be as small as possible. He didn’t know why he forced himself to be quiet instead of calling for help so his dad could rush up and help him, save him.

He didn’t know why he was doing this, other than for the fact that he had to. Something was telling him suffer alone and he listened like he did to any order given to him now days.

They spent their night like that, each alone in their own despair, both crying about what they had lost and blaming themselves.

“ **Ten** ” Stiles stutters in hopes to leave the memory. He does but only for a moment, he sees Scott’s encouraging smile like his mother’s and then is once again submerged into the terrors of his mind.

It was another one of those nights. He was lying in bed and trying to fall asleep even if he knew it was useless. It was one of the bone-chilling nights where everything felt wrong and he just wanted to disappear.

He was staring out of his window when it started. In the inky black sky there was a glow. It began dimly but with every second it became brighter and brighter. Stiles wondered if he had stayed awake all night and the sun was finally coming up but that didn’t make sense; the sun came up from his dad’s window, not his.

He scrambled to the door and presses his ear to it when he heard his father’s phone ring.

“Hello? Okay, I’ll be there soon.” He opened the door slightly and watched his dad rush by, the man stopped at the base of the wooden stairs to point a finger at Stiles.

“You stay here, that’s an order.” With that he ran off to the police cruiser and was driving towards the mysterious glow.

Stiles backed up until the back of his knees hit the bed frame. He looked to his side and realized he was staring at himself through the mirror. Within, he saw a scared ten year old nibbling on his bottom lip.

Hating himself only a little bit, he threw on his big red sweater and ran into the woods. The half-moon brought light to the ground so he wouldn’t trip over any rock or trees. But when he reached the flashing red and blue lights, he didn’t even need the moon. A burning house lit up the whole clearing and surrounding woods.

“No!” he heard his father shout. He was holding the waist of a teenager that seemed to want to run to the house.

“Derek! An older girl yelled. Even from a far he could see they were related: they both had black hair, tan skin, pointed ears and eyes that could shred anyone to pieces. Stiles gulped and saw the teenager’s head snap towards his direction.

It felt like he was once again seven, standing on dead leaves and staring into the wolf’s eyes: full of emotion but fear in particular. Just like the wolf, Derek snarled aggressively and anger guarded his eyes instead.

Stiles held his breath even if he knew it was impossible to have been seen or heard.

He stared as the boy thrashed to be let go but his dad held on firmly, not letting the teenager run to his death.

Finally he calmed down and Stiles’ dad spoke, Derek nodding along. After the speech, the teenager fell onto the deputy and began to cry. Stiles’ dad held on tight and Stiles’ throat knotted. He wished his dad would hug him like that. But they weren’t ready yet, they were far from healing and the two Stilinskis together would make them suffer more.

Still, silent tears slid down his frozen cheeks.

“Dad” he whispered and once again the teenager in the clearing stiffened.

Unable to continue watching, Stiles fled the crime scene and hoped he would arrive before his dad found out he broke the laws of the Stilinski household.

“ **Stiles** ” he hears Scott say and Stiles gasps as he flails into a sitting position. The action resembles so greatly to the time he sacrificed himself in exchange for his dad when the Darach was in town that Stiles is almost thrown to another memory.

Instead, he focuses in the feel of Scott’s hand in his and holds it like it’s an anchor to the real world. This is the real world, he isn’t seven or eight or nine or ten, he’s seventeen and he isn’t alone. He has Scott by his side and he will stop crying now because he is strong now, he thinks.

It takes a few tries but he succeeds.

“You’re safe buddy,” encourages Scott and Stiles nods.

It’s only then that he remembers what brought him to a panic attack in the first place: the photograph.

It looks so simple, like the only thing happening at the time was two little kids having fun. But it wasn’t that simple.

During the photograph his mother was quietly dying and no one knew. Her own brain was killing her, shrinking into nothingness and there they were laughing. In a few months she wouldn’t ever laugh again because she would be terrified of everything and crying. A few weeks before that, he would be laughing as she called everything by the wrong name without knowing that he would start having panic attacks when she forgot _his_ name.

During that picture Scott was with Stiles because his mother needed to work an extra shift. Half a year before the picture was taken, Scott was pushed down the stairs and he never saw his father again. Still fighting for their home, Scott’s mother had to spare every penny and accept every extra hour at the hospital in hopes that she would pay all the bills by herself. The bread they were throwing to the duck was from Scott’s house, Melissa hadn’t argued but she had cried when they had left because she couldn’t afford more bread for another week. A year later, when they were about to lose the house, Scott’s grandparents would die in a car accident and Melissa would receive all their money and belongings. She would sell her childhood home and everything inside so she didn’t need to sell their home in Beacon Hills.

During the photo, Derek Hale was meeting his first love. They laughed and loved just like Scoot and Stiles but it doesn’t last long. Eight full moons later, Derek would be holding Paige in his arms. They’d be hiding from hunters who were trying to kill his pack. Page would be choking on black blood, ears and nose bleeding too. Derek would look up to find his uncle and plead; “What’s happening? Why isn’t she healing?” His answer would be as horrible as Paige holding onto Derek whispering “It hurts Derek; it hurts so much, make it stop.” Derek would hold her so tightly that she would die from a bone piercing her heart. “I’m sorry” he would cry and think it’s his fault.

But Stiles can’t think of the past. He needs to look at the present, to the future. He is in his closet for a reason. He will be going to college since the supernatural activity of Beacon Hills has slowed down. He just needs to pack and leave his past in the past. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! That was my first work for AO3 and I'm kind of really happy about it, so thank you to anyone who reads it.


End file.
